


If We're Both Fucking, Then Who's Driving The Car?!

by Crash1969 (autoerotic)



Category: Crash (1996)
Genre: Ballardian, Car Sex, Cars, Gay Sex, JG Ballard, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Simp-phorophilia, Symphorophilia, The 90s, car crash fetish, cum, gross gross gross, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:09:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26746408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoerotic/pseuds/Crash1969
Summary: Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy...
Relationships: James Ballard/Vaughan (Crash)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	If We're Both Fucking, Then Who's Driving The Car?!

**Author's Note:**

> I vehemently apologize for all of it.

I couldn't say if it was very late at night or very early in the morning when the realization of where I'd seen Vaughan's face before stepped in to kick me in the nuts. I opened my eyes like someone just prodded me with a hot iron and smacked Catherine on the arm. She awoke, not able to get out a single word before I spoke to her first. 

"It's him," I said. 

Catherine shook her head and looked at me like I was a man possessed by the spirit of idiocy. "What are you talking about, James?" 

"It's him. Vaughan, he's from television." I pinched the bridge of my nose, fighting back either a headache or a nosebleed. I did keep getting the latter ever since I was in my first wreck. 

"What do you mean…? He's from television?"

I leaned forward to put my face in my hands. "He's that guy, from that boring fucking show."

"Which one, James? You're going to have to be more specific." I could tell Catherine was put out with me but, to be fair to me, it was the witching hour and I hadn't slept in what seemed like days. 

"Remember 'How's It Work'?" This was a show that used to pop up on PBS in the afternoon, when children were napping and their mothers would watch through half-closed lids the mundane being explained to them. 

Catherine sighed. "Yes."

"He was on a series that branched off that. 'How's It Work: Transportation.'" 

"Great. Time to go back to sleep."

"No, what? Aren't you interested in this? He's that doctor, Doctor Robert Vaughan. The show host."

"Cool."

"Cool?"

"Yep. Goodnight, James."

Even if she wasn't fascinated, I knew I was. Vaughan was a good-looking guy on the television screen, less scarred and with more hair than he had now. It wasn't that I thought he was unattractive in present day, but you would almost never have guessed he was the same person. I remember reading about his motorcycle accident, what seemed like ages ago. I wondered what happened to his hair. Someone on a raunchy talk show was joking about his penis having been road burned clean off when he went under the tires of the truck that hit him, which was a dark joke and obviously not true. Thinking about it, I believe the person who made that comment was Joan Rivers. It sounds like something she'd say. Maybe his penis wasn't gone, but I could see it being just as messed up as his face.

 _Why_ was I thinking about his penis so much?

There was something exciting about knowing he was a minor celebrity, something that made me want to call him up and ask him about his fall from grace. Or about the accident. Or about his penis. No, scratch that last one.

But how would I reach him?

I knew it was likely he lived with the Seagraves, who I could look up in the phone book. If not, I had no idea of how I was going to find him again. I pulled the covers off me and threw them onto Catherine, and then I got out of bed. It still hurt to move sometimes but as long as I popped a couple pain pills now and again it wasn't a big deal. I pulled the white pages out from the kitchen cabinet and slammed it onto the counter. Half of Toronto was in that book, it was huge. I scanned down the pages, but didn't find a listing for the right Seagraves. Defeated, I exhaled and put the phone back down. 

I heard a knock.

Never being more confused in my life, I turned to the side and saw, on my balcony, of my high rise apartment: Vaughan. How did he get up here? Was he in my apartment? Did he cum on anything? 

I don't know why the last part of that crossed my mind. I chuckled to myself and tried to think that I was **not** obsessed with Vaughan's dick.

_Was I?_

I opened the door and let him inside. "Vaughan... How did you...?"

"I was looking around and I got locked out. I'm glad you woke up so I didn't have to shatter the glass." Vaughan looked up at my ceiling and I followed his gaze. Nothing was there. I leveled my eyes.

"You snuck into my apartment?"

"Mhm." 

"To watch me sleep?"

He scoffed. "No, to watch you piss."

Those words hung in the air for an uncomfortably long amount of time. 

"To watch me..."

"That was sarcasm, Ballard. I just wanted to borrow your car keys." 

I was relieved. Not all the way, because there was still something distinctly weird about Dr. Robert Vaughan, a former TV scientist and show host, being on my balcony at three in the morning. But again, I was kind of excited. This Vaughan was _the_ Vaughan. From TV!

"Just the keys?" I asked.

"No, the whole car, but the keys are the first step."

I couldn't even begin to imagine what he wanted to do with my car. Would he stick his dick in the tailpipe? Was that wishful thinking? I didn't even know if he was into cars like that. I wondered if he would stick his dick in my tailpipe, but I went pale from having thought that with my own brain. He must have noticed that I looked sick, because he got up way too close to my face and tried to look into my eyes. 

"You okay, Ballard?" he asked.

I nodded. "As okay as I can be."

"Good."

"I know who you are," I blurted out.

Vaughan stared at me. "What do you mean?"

"You're Vaughan from television."

No response.

"... Right?"

Vaughan's tongue must have pressed against the inside of his cheek, there was a weird bulge beneath some scars on the side of his mouth. "Yes."

"'How's It Work: Transportation'?"

"That's me."

I so desperately wanted to ask him about his penis. Why? Why was that on my mind? Fuck you, Joan Rivers. Why would you make me think so much about Vaughan's road burned dick having been demolished by asphalt? I had to think of a better way to approach the subject, if I was going to find out at all. I couldn't just ask him to drop his pants and show it to me... Could I?

"You were good," was all I could say.

"Thank you. You too."

None of us addressed this for a full thirty seconds. That's right, for thirty seconds we just looked at each other. A standoff. A stare-down.

"So... What did you want my car for?" I asked, finally.

Vaughan plainly responded with: "I wanted to drive it."

Well, no shit. It became Captain Obvious versus Sherlock. "But why? Why didn't you ask me about it?"

"I thought I'd just take it, then return it, and that you wouldn't ever know."

I didn't like that. 

"But no, Vaughan. I want to know why."

Vaughan shrugged. "I thought it would be fun. But now that you're up, it's better. We can drive it together."

My heart felt like it skipped a beat, I was flittering. _Together_ was the key word that gave me butterflies. There was no logical explanation for feeling this way, I was dumbfounded and confused at myself. I didn't realize it until the very second, but I always did have a crush on Vaughan when I watched Transportation. 

"Well, if you want," I said. 

Vaughan smiled, and I noticed for the first time that one of his front incisors were missing. Were they not able to fix that when they patched him up? If his tooth was missing, was his dick missing too? Oh my God, James. Stop thinking about his dick. But I had to know.

I motioned for him to step to the door with me, and I took my keys from the hook by the door. It wasn't long before we got to the garage, but neither of us said anything the entire time. I stopped at the familiar numbers. "Okay. This is it."

What happened next was a fulfillment of fantasy and yet horrible, when Vaughan crawled into my car's front seat and yanked his pants down all in one swift motion. I looked around like I was being pranked, like there were cameras pointed at me and this was a lewd, candid show. Try as I might to search for explanation, none was provided by anything in the immediate vicinity. But then I was staring at it.

Vaughan's cock and balls.

That meant one important query was out of the way. He did, in fact, still have it. Eat your heart out, Joan Rivers! But it really must have been a bad accident because even if it was there, it was slightly deformed. A natural deformity, maybe, being a slight curve. Unnaturally, it was scarred to hell and back. The balls weren't in bad shape, but I noted a surgical scar on the side of one of them that indicated there might be a testicular implant rather than a true nut on one side. 

I was losing consciousness. 

I swayed back and forth for a second before realizing I had locked my knees into position and was getting ready to faint. "Vaughan? Vaughan! What are you... what are you doing?"

"The interior in here is great, Ballard. Very smooth."

He would know it well, he was sitting with bare ass pressed against the leather. 

"Oh. That's good," I offered.

He got up, but his pants did not follow. He shuffled around with them around his ankles until he crawled into my back seat, at which point I got a glimpse of the full moon and all cracks and crevices associated with it. I was stunned. None of this seemed real. Maybe Catherine knocked me unconscious as punishment for me waking her up at no man's time. I heard him moan. 

"Come, sit with me," he beckoned. 

I peered inside the rear seat and he was just... there. He had kicked off his pants and was motioning for me to come inside. For some reason I did, and I shut the door behind me. It was just the two of us in the glow of the interior light. I was able to get the full view of what seemed to be the brains of Vaughan's operation, rising to the occasion. What occasion? I didn't know. But I was obsessed with watching this balloon of flesh, scarred and crooked, erect in front of me. Insanity. 

"What… What was it like being on television?" I started, but he took me by the hand.

And he put my hand directly on his dick. I didn't know it until that moment but that was exactly what I wanted. I took it, I touched it, and I leaned up close to it to examine every little turn the scars took. Then the light went out. I heard the door open and then slam again, and the light returned. 

Vaughan said, "Ballard. What do you think?"

"Of...?"

"Car crashes."

"They're..." I wanted to say 'sexy', but at the same time that was not what I wanted to say at all and couldn't be further from my mind until it popped up there that moment. "... Cool." Worse word choice, alright.

"I agree, Ballard, they are 'cool'. But that energy. The momentum! Here, stroke it a little."

He put his hand on my hand and guided it up and down the shaft. It felt just like it looked, like touching a stalagmite. I was hooked. 

"Tell me about yours, Ballard. What was it like? The impact?" 

He removed his hand and I continued the motions without him. "It was exhilirating," I replied. "When Helen's husband came through my windshield, I guess I felt something that I never felt before. I saw her looking at me through shattered glass, and I knew she could feel it too. It made my heart race."

I was just chatting away while giving him a handjob. I was curious about the taste, but not yet curious enough to try it. I thumbed over his urethra, playing peek-a-boo with the hole. Vaughan had a look of bliss on his face as precum bubbled up, giving more credence to the rock formation analogy. Volcanic. 

"Tell me more," he said.

"I was in so much pain but it was like being high. I think my favorite part was the way my chest hit the steering wheel," I responded. 

Vaughan licked his lips. "Sounds so sexy."

"It was," I said, words of agreement that I never in my life anticipate I would say. Of course, never in my life did I think I would be giving a handy-j to Doctor Robert Vaughan (from television) while I told him about the fatal accident I'd been in. "What are you a doctor of, by the way?"

"No, no, tell me more about the impact." He didn't seem interested in explaining his story, just interested in getting off using my hand. It wasn't romantic but it was sublime. 

What else could I say about it? It happened the way it happened. I didn't even know if I was remembered it well. "I hit my head pretty hard on the steering wheel too. It hit my chest first but I think I recoiled and then smacked it again, which is how I got concussed." 

He came at the word 'concussed'. It was quicker than I anticipated. I think he mouthed the words, 'Oh, fuck yeah', but they weren't audible. 

I had Vaughan's man juices all over my hand, so I shook the drops off and then wiped the remaining fluid on the carpeting and then my shirt. 

"That was great, Ballard, thanks," he said to me. 

"Weren't you going to test drive my car?" I reminded him.

He looked around. "Oh, right. Will you come with me?" 

I nodded. He got back into his pants and then wandered around to the driver's side, still panting in ecstasy. As I sat down in the passenger's seat, I couldn't even bring myself to consider my life choices. I didn't care. I was hooked on Vaughan, hooked on his penis, hooked on eroticism of car crashes, and then some. I was stunned. 

"I like you, Ballard. I think you're my kind of guy," Vaughan said to me.

"Me too."

He smiled, and started the engine. I smiled, and stared at myself in the rear view mirror.

I was absolutely out of my mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to David Cronenberg and the ghost of JG Ballard who both fully endorsed and helped me write this.


End file.
